


Hard Lessons

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Idiot Boyfriends (head over heels and in denial) [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Beating, Gen, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hugh Mercer is John's Father, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: Hugh Mercer is a decorated general, who expects 100% from every soldier under his command.He expects even more from his son.Or,How John Laurens got those scars on his back.





	Hard Lessons

 

The first man that would ever tell Laurens he was loved, is his father.

General Hugh Mercer is a man unfortunately hardened by war, body all sharp lines and stiff angles and rigid posture. Cold eyes forever scanning for threats, and calloused fists designed to eliminate them immediately. He is not a frivolous man and has no desire to humour frivolous pursuits or folly. And his son's passions are deemed as such.

Laurens is strong, with a sleek musculature that could easily take the role of killing machine, given a little training under a commander's nurturing hand. But Laurens is too naive to understand the grey morality of fighting for independence, sees the war as a brutal exercise of killing people for sport.

“You hold the British in too high esteem.” Mercer says one day when they are alone in the conservatory. He strides in, chin up, and Laurens scrambles to hide his work. Why doesn’t his father ever knock. “They are animals, tyrants. You need to understand that.”

Laurens says nothing, focusing his attention on the drawing concealed under the table. He had spent hours on it, re-creating from memory, the distinct form of a British soldier he had seen near the King’s College commons. It was the red coat that struck him, seized his mind’s eye, and coaxed him into position, hunched over with graphite and charcoal, hand cramping he attempted to capture the very essence of the glint in that soldier’s expression. The curve of the man’s lips, the angles of his hands. It had led him here, hunched over the table, hiding his artistic passion from his father. Art is a frivolous pursuit, and his father doesn’t let him forget it.

“I don’t agree.” And that’s all it takes. Laurens’ face is yanked upwards, so fast that his body follows suit to avoid dislocating his neck. His father's fingers dig into the side of his face, forcing the skin to grate against teeth; Laurens can taste blood. But it’s too late. His father has seen what he is hiding, and he’ll pay for it.

“I love you.” Hugh lets go of his son’s face. He squares his shoulders and points to the parchment which lays under the table. “Which means I can’t have that depravity in this house. I’m trying to protect you, but you seem to enjoy tempting fate. Do you enjoy being a pansy?”

“I-I’m not…” Laurens clenches his fists and looks up, meeting his father’s gaze. “No, Sir.”

Hugh nods, and the tension seems to clear. He narrows his eyes. “Then why do you insist on wasting time in this pursuit?” He snatches the drawing from the floor, shaking it in Laurens’ face for emphasis, “On drawing such pornographic depictions of men, of the British no less? It’s revolting. Did I fail in teaching you how to be a man?”

“No, Sir.” Laurens knows this isn’t the time to defend himself. It’ll just make his father more irate. And the General is well-versed in cruel and unusual punishments.

“You insist on defying me, regardless.” It isn’t a question. The clink of Mercer’s belt coming undone strikes fear into Laurens’ very being. “On your knees, boy.”

“S-sir?” The words stumble from Laurens’ trembling mouth, gulps of air interrupting the syllables as tears continue to roll down his cheeks.

Mercer doesn’t repeat himself. A calloused fist crashes into Laurens’ face, sending him flying to the floor. Laurens groans, turning his head to spit blood. He presses his palms into the floor and pushes off in an effort to right himself. He bears more weight on his left than his right, mangled fingers refusing to support him. Still, his efforts are futile.

“You will count.” Mercer commands.

“S-S…?”

“ _One_.” his father demands.

The leather belt sings as it cuts through the air, cracking against Laurens’ back with relentless force.

“One, Sir!” John's arms give way as he cries out, collapsing into the floor. The sting across his spine erupts as the leather tears another line into his skin.

“Two, Sir!” Blood seeps from the laceration, staining his shirt, as he gasps weakly. His skin raises in revolt, red streaks plotting the route of abuse across freckles and tan skin.

“Three, Sir!” Laurens jerks away as his father swings again, sobbing into the hardwood floor.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Mercer mutters, taking aim. He raises the leather above his head, and brings it down hard and heavy on his son's back. Laurens’ vision goes white, teeth clenched as he shudders.

“I won't have a faggot in my house,” Each word is accompanied by another strike that cuts the skin on Laurens’ back into ribbons, “you understand me?”

Laurens can't do anything but scream. He zones out, body going limp as the assault rains down. He doesn't struggle. Doesn't defend himself. It's not as though it'll make a difference.

“Twe… t-twenty, _Sir_ !” Laurens sobs, gasping for air. “Sir, t-twenty, sir, p-please, _mercy._ ” Laurens begs, skin burning and blistered. He stills, his body refusing to cooperate with his pleas to _move_. There’s a ringing in the air as the belt buckle clatters against the ground, discarded in an act of reluctant clemency. Laurens flinches at the sound, eyes wide open as he sees the copper-coloured streaks lining the edge of the leather smudge across the hardwood. It’s his blood.

His father’s presence no longer hovers above him, and Laurens allows himself to appreciate the brief reprieve. He pants, each breath anxious of jostling the fresh wounds on his back. Behind him, he is more than aware of the sound of paper tearing, and he imagines his father ripping through charcoal, no doubt separating the beautiful soldier from his red coat.

“Get up.”

Laurens can’t, and it isn’t for the lack of trying.

“Get up, or I’ll make you.”

He can smell it, the citrus burns his nostrils. It's a silent warning, and Laurens knows his father well enough to know that he won't enjoy whatever is coming. Still, silence will get him nothing. And asking for help will get him even less. His throat burns as the words stumble pitifully from torn vocal cords, “I can’t. Sir.”

Laurens can feel his father above him, can see the outline of his shadow shifting on the hardwood floor. “You can, and will.” Mercer prods Laurens with his foot and panic fills the boy. He can see it, the lemon in his father's hands, and he braces for the oncoming pain. The searing agony that will reward his defiance.

 "Please, Sir. I can, I can. J-just give me some time."

"We don't have the luxury of working at your convenience, boy."

 

**Author's Note:**

> (All mistakes are my own)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Safe with You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730209) by [jaimesselfishmachines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines)




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